


Broomstacking

by notpoetry (scriptory), scriptory



Category: Stargate: Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-18
Updated: 2006-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:56:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptory/pseuds/notpoetry, https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptory/pseuds/scriptory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Broomstacking, v.: Socialising with other curlers after a game." Rodney's on a curling team, John's a figure skater, and Canadians everywhere die of shame.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broomstacking

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a Canadian, or a curler, or a figure skater. Everything I know about curling, I learned from Paul Gross.

The next day, the skater was there again.

"What the fucking fuck?" Callum yelled, throwing his broom down. Rodney stared through the plexiglass guards lining the rink. The skater didn't seem to have heard Callum, and calmly went into a spin. A very controlled, very fast, very pretty spin. Ooh, legs.

"Yo!" Callum slammed his fist on the plexi, which rattled and wobbled and echoed in the near-empty rink. "We're on the list, fairy!"

"Still have twenty minutes, check the board," called the skater. Carson heaved a sigh and set his two stones down on the floor.

"Time enough for coffee," he said. Neil followed him out. Callum banged the handle of his broom on the plastic a few more times for good measure, then left, leaving his stones on the floor. Rodney sat down on the bleachers and stared. He hadn't gotten a chance to watch yesterday, too entertained by Callum's fit-throwing to pay much attention to the skater, but today he couldn't seem to take his eyes off him.

The skater was wearing loose black pants and a tight black t-shirt to go along with his black figure skates, and Rodney zipped up his polarfleece to his neck as he watched him glide backwards around the ice. He must be fucking freezing; Rodney refused to wear anything less than long johns under two pairs of pants and a sweater to the rink.

"Real charming friends," the skater called, his voice echoing in the rink. Rodney jumped.

"What?"

The skater sliced to a stop right in front of where Rodney was sitting on the bleachers and leaned against the low divider wall. "Your friends," he said, tapping on the plexi. "The blond, particularly, is very classy."

"Callum," Rodney said. "He's, um. He's like that all the time. Kind of an asshole, but a really good skip."

The skater nodded at the broom in Rodney's hand. "This is for curling?"

"No, I'm the janitor," Rodney snapped. The skater held his hands up. "Oh, don't be like that," Rodney said. "It's a kind of. Yes. Curling. There's a bonspiel in one week and we're all panicking."

"Bonspiel. Is that like a hoedown?"

Rodney made a few incoherent noises, working himself up to a rant on the legacy of curling and how today's Canadians just didn't appreciate the history, when he saw the skater's grin. "Asshole," Rodney said. "Don't play dumb, it's not pretty." He felt his face flush as soon as the words left his mouth, but the skater didn't notice.

"Hey, you get mad that fast, you bet I'm gonna yank your chain." He hooked his fingers over the top of the guard and leaned forward, putting his weight on his arms and digging the toe-picks on his skates into the ice. "Sorry for kicking you off the ice yesterday."

"No, you're not," Rodney said.

"Nah, I'm really not." The skater grinned and scrubbed a hand back through his floppy hair. "I gotta practice too."

Rodney tried to think of something to say that wasn't, "you have a very nice ass," but was saved by the rink door slamming open.

"Motherfucking fuck, fairy, you still here?"

"Shut the fuck up, cocksucker," the skater called, and Rodney was surprised to hear Callum laugh. "He's like my old staff sergeant," the skater said, grinning, and started to skate backwards. "The more you swear, the more you get his respect. So hey. Good luck with your hoedown."

"Bonspiel," Rodney said automatically, leaning back on the bleachers and shouldering his broom. The skater shrugged, waved, and glided off the ice. He could hear him trading insults with Callum as he left, but Rodney didn't get up. Instead, he stared out at the gleaming rink, hands wrapped around the brush of his broom, until he saw Carson and Neil pushing the stones into the center of the ice. He stood and followed them out, shuffling his feet to keep from slipping.

"Asshole," Callum said, stepping out onto the ice. "Goddamnit, that fucking faggot Sheppard scratched up the ice with his girly skates."

"Who?" Rodney said.

"Sheppard, John, whatever, the fucking figure skater." Callum danced in place, like he was imitating the complex moves the skater had been making before.

"He told you his name?"

"It was on the time reserve board, McKay, don't be a dickface." Callum whacked him in the ribs with the handle of his broom. "Come on, let's get shooting."

* * *

Rodney sat down on the bleachers, leaning his elbows on his knees, and watched the zamboni move in slow, hypnotic circles around the ice. He tried not to replay the ends in his head, but failed; he couldn't stop thinking about that last end, the slow push of his broom forward, the sudden spin of the stone as his brush nudged it. Rodney banged the handle of his broom on the plexiglass guard and thought about Antarctica. No curling in Antarctica. Just military and scientists and...ice. He sighed. Might be nice.

"Always wanted to drive one of those."

Rodney whipped his head around. John was leaning on the railing of the bleachers, skates tied together by their laces and slung over one shoulder, his hands in the pockets of an RCMP jacket hanging open over a black t-shirt. A duffle bag was at his feet. "A zamboni?" Rodney said.

John nodded and climbed up on the bleachers next to Rodney, then sat down and started untying his sneakers. "They look like fun. Sorry about your hoedown."

"Bonspiel." Rodney shook his head. He could still hear Callum screaming, "Hurry, hurry, come on you titfuckers, hurry," as he and Neil swept the ice. He dug his thumbs into his eyes and muttered, "Fuck. You were there?" That's all he needed, for this man he didn't even know to think he was a failure, burning a rock like that, such an amateur.

"Not for the whole thing. Watched your team's ends, though." John pulled off his sneakers and set about unknotting the laces of his skates. "Figured it's only fair. You've been watching me skate for the past week."

"I like to get to practice early," Rodney said. John just smirked at him. "What," Rodney said defensively. "It's not my fault you took over the rink."

"Yeah, what, you just like to watch?" John grinned at him and Rodney felt his face redden. "Oh, that's very sweet, I made you blush."

"You are such an asshole," Rodney said. John shrugged and pulled on his skates. "What are you doing? They're locking up the rink in a few minutes. Everybody's left."

"Not you," John said. "Not me. Not the zamboni guy."

"I'm leaving once I think I'll be able to look at myself in the mirror again. Which might be awhile." Rodney watched John lace up his skates. "Are you seriously --"

"I rent the rink out every night," John said shortly. "The hour I reserve in the day isn't enough, and I don't like practicing while people watch."

Rodney gaped at him. "You should've told me," he said. "I wouldn't have --"

"Rodney." John shrugged out of his jacket and folded it up on the bleacher next to Rodney, then swung his legs off the bleachers and hopped down onto the rubber-matted floor. The zamboni rumbled into the storage area outside the rink, the doors closing behind it. "I'm a big boy. You really think I wouldn't have asked you to leave if I didn't want you there?"

For the first time in a long time, Rodney was struck dumb. He sat there and watched John step onto the ice, take a few testing glides, and then he was moving, hands clasped behind his back, his body bent forward, legs pushing powerfully. Rodney leaned towards the rink, eyes following John as he skimmed across the ice. He was beautiful, every part of him focused on the synthesis of movement required to keep from falling and killing himself. Suddenly he leapt into the air, spinning, and Rodney heard himself let out a noise that echoed in the rink. But John didn't seem to hear it and landed perfectly, going into a slow spin, then back to gliding in widening circles.

Rodney suddenly got it. He stood and pounded down the bleachers, then stepped out onto the ice and strode out across to John, who was skating backwards now, crossing his feet as he did. "You showoff," Rodney yelled, throwing his arms out to his sides. "You complete and utter showoff."

"Got your attention," John said with a grin, and circled around Rodney, forcing him to turn in place to keep John in view. "You thought it was cool."

"Well, yeah." Rodney watched John turn and skate forward for a moment before switching to backwards again. "You're not a fairy," he said suddenly. "I'm sorry that -- I'm sorry for Callum saying that, before."

John shrugged, and how he managed to look lazy while spinning on very thin metal blades on a sheet of solid ice was a miracle. "Thanks for the concern for my self-esteem," he said, sounding bored. Rodney opened his mouth to say something snappish when John said, "I don't think an ex-Mountie can be a fairy, but, whatever."

Rodney dropped his head into his hands. "Of course you're a Mountie," he groaned. "I have a crush on a figure skater. Who watches curling. And is a Mountie. Can my life get any weirder."

"Ex-Mountie," John said, and skidded to a stop two inches away from him. Rodney let out a squeak and took a step back, but slipped on the ice and had to grab onto John's shoulders to keep from falling and breaking his tailbone. John gripped Rodney's forearms and grinned at him. "You really have a crush on me?"

"Yes, yes, let's be teenage girls about it," Rodney said. "I like you. You're a showoff who doesn't like it when people watch him skate but apparently doesn't mind it when I watch, so you like me and that was your incredibly stupid way of telling me." He tightened his hands on John's shoulders; he could feel the heat from John's skin through the thin material of his t-shirt. "Flowers and chocolates are easier."

"But not nearly as impressive." John's tongue flicked out over his lower lip. "I really want to kiss you."

Rodney swallowed. "Why aren't you?"

And then he was, they were kissing, mouths pressed together and John's hands sliding up to grip Rodney's shoulder and rest at the back of his neck. Rodney tried to pull John closer but almost fell again, and John leaned back, laughing and grabbing Rodney around the waist to keep them both upright.

"This is the dumbest thing I've ever done. Kissing on the ice, I mean," Rodney said hurriedly when John's face fell. "It doesn't strike me as particularly safe."

"But what a place for a first kiss, eh?" John raised an eyebrow and looked altogether too pleased with himself. Rodney rolled his eyes.

"Yes, yes, you're just all around impressive."

"You were pretty impressive too. At the --"

"Bonspiel."

"I was going to say that." The corner of John's mouth curled up in a smile and he rested his hand on the side of Rodney's face. Rodney shivered slightly; it wasn't that John's hand was cold -- it was just the opposite, warm and alive and pressing gently against his jaw, protection from the cold of the ice rink.

"I burned a rock," Rodney said, and John looked surprised at the bitterness in his voice. "We came in second in my last match ever because I burned a rock."

John's eyebrows knitted together. "Rodney, it was -- you burned one stone, you didn't lose the game for your team."

"Still," Rodney said. "You were far more impressive. With the ice dancing and all."

John laughed. "Don't ever call it ice dancing." He stroked his thumb over Rodney's cheekbone. "This was your last match ever?"

"I'm going to Antarctica," Rodney said.

To his credit, John only looked surprised for a moment. Then he said, "What, there's not curling in Antarctica?"

"I highly doubt the American military would appreciate me shipping eight forty-two pound stones to McMurdo, so, no, there isn't curling in Antarctica." Rodney sighed. "What a waste of ice."

"No kidding." John wrapped his fingers around Rodney's wrists and started to lean backwards, tugging slightly. "Come on."

"What?" Rodney felt himself start to slide forward. "Oh no, no -- I can't skate."

"And you call yourself a Canadian." John grinned and Rodney felt himself grin back, helplessly, joyfully. "This isn't skating, this is -- I don't know, sliding. I'm the only one on skates." He pulled a little harder and Rodney lurched forward, the soles of his boots gliding easily over the slick ice.

"This is crazy," Rodney said, and John nodded his head, like he knew Rodney wasn't just talking about this moment.

"Come on, Rodney," he said, and they started to move faster. "You know why I skate?" Rodney shook his head, never taking his eyes off John, who smiled, bright and powerful. "Because when you do it right, it feels like flying."

**Author's Note:**

> Like I said, I'm not a curler. If I fucked up, please correct me. If you recognized the Men With Brooms character cameo, then, um, you get a prize? (Starring James Allodi as Neil! Go see this movie, it's hysterical. I love Canada.) And, uh, that is Callum Keith Rennie, but, not really. I started this literally at four in the morning when it began writing itself in my head and I was tired and freaked out as to why Rodney and John were suddenly involved in ice sports and was like, "motherfucking fuck, what is going on here," and all the curses came out on the page as well. And a man who looked like Callum was the one saying them, so, he became CKR. Except why CKR is on a curling team with a physicist, a geneticist, and a mortician, I couldn't possibly tell you.


End file.
